


Dèchirè

by fireandiceandunicorns



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Cock & Ball Torture, Gen, Gore, Hell Fic, Other, Post-Hell, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-11
Updated: 2014-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-17 00:20:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2290049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireandiceandunicorns/pseuds/fireandiceandunicorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out, Dean didn't tell Sam the whole story about hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dèchirè

**Author's Note:**

> Think of this first chapter of an epilogue of sorts, before it starts getting into hell aftermath. Bear with me here, as I've never written anything like this before.

He wakes up and it's cold. He isn't surrounded by burning coils or fiery pits of lava. There's nothing but four walls and the rack he is chained to and it's dark. So dark, in fact, that he wonders if the walls are even there at all. His second realization is that he's naked. The torn clothing is gone, replaced by nothing but skin and the thought has him feeling vulnerable already.

Theres a creak of a door, large and metal by the sounds of it, being pulled open and he thinks, so he is in a room. He's not imagining the four walls. But he has no idea who or what has come for him, and he's forgotten for a second he's unclothed before he hears the flick of what is presumably a lighter and suddenly the entire room lights up. And it isn't Sam or Bobby or Ellen or his father standing in front of him, come to rescue him from the pit, but a man he doesn't recognize.

Then the man's eyes flicker white, not black, and he begins to understand. And not understand, at the exact same time. His eyes are now flickering with something else, malice he guessed, and his lips were twisted up into a taunting smirk. His teeth are yellowed, probably on their way to rotting, but Dean stares transfixed at them anyway. Better that than to look him in the eye, see the evil standing right in front of him.

He doesn't know this demon. Chances are, he doesn't want to.

"Dean Winchester, on my rack?" The man muses, and he laughs as if it's the most absurd thing in the universe. "My, my, my. There are plenty of demons who'd like a shot at you, boy. Consider yourself lucky I don't like to share my toys."

There's a pause for a second and the man, Alastair he tells him, licks his lips. Dean realizes that he's looking him up and down, taking in every inch of him, and his skin begins to crawl. He's feeling more self-conscious than ever as he steps behind him for a second, disappearing from view. He almost panics for a second until he hears Alastair humming behind him, accompanied by the low scrape of metal against metal. He doesn't know what he's doing, thinks for a second he might've left, but he knows he couldn't get that lucky.

Suddenly he's in front of him again and there's something shiny in his hand, something metal.

"There are all kinds of ways we could play together down hear Deano," Alastair explains. "I could do... this."

All he feels is a white hot, searing pain as he sticks the knife forwards and drives it straight through his guts. The wound starts to bleed, blood pouring down until Dean's light-headed and dizzy, but it all stops once Alastair snaps his fingers. There's no more blood, no more wound. All that's left now is a scar. He'd come to learn later Alastair kept it there as a reminder. There would be more wounds and more scars, all littering his body so that he was never quite fixed - not really. Alastair liked for him to be broken; never quite perfect again.

"Or I could do this."

And then Alastair's hand is wrapped around his balls, twisting and pulling and kneading before it all comes to a stop. He's already on the verge of passing out, certainly not used to being manhandled in such away, but if Alastair notices then he certainly doesn't care.

The demon tilts it's head, leering at him through those yellowed teeth. He's still got his balls in a vice grip, bouncing and pulling at them lazily. "How much force do you think it takes to rupture a testicle, Dean?" He asks.

And then it all goes black.


End file.
